No Longer a Gentleman by Mary Jo Putney

pursuers will be less likely to find us.”
    “You really think Durand will send men after us?” Grey asked, his skin crawling at the prospect.
    “I don’t know the man, but my instincts say yes.” She got to her feet. “We foxes survive through slyness and instinct.”
    He guessed she’d chosen the name Fox just as she’d picked Cassandra: because the names suited her. He wondered what her real name was. “Will Père Laurent be safe here?”
    She frowned. “Reasonably so. This farm is remote, and since Madame Boyer married outside her native village, she will be hard to trace as one of his relations. Père Laurent will stay here under the guise of an elderly cousin of Romain’s, recently widowed and too feeble to care for himself. He’ll also keep his beard.”
    “That should work,” Grey agreed. “Locked in that cell, no one has seen him in years, so he won’t be readily recognized.”
    It would be hard to leave his friend after developing such closeness over the years. But even more than that closeness, Grey wanted to go home.
     
     

Chapter 16
     
     
    Firmly back in her role as a sturdy countrywoman who rode astride and brooked no nonsense, Cassie waited patiently for Grey to make his farewells to Père Laurent and the Boyers. He’d endeared himself to the whole family in the days they’d stayed at the farm and waited for the snow to clear enough for travel.
    She had made her appearance drab for so long that it was second nature. Grey was more difficult to tone down. Even with his worn country clothing, the rinse she’d given him to dull his hair, and the ragged cut she’d given his beard, he looked like Somebody. Ten years in prison couldn’t extinguish his aristocratic bearing. She’d have to remind him to slouch wearily when they were around people.
    Grey hugged Père Laurent, saying huskily, “Au revoir, mon père,” as if the priest truly was his father. “If I ever have a son, I shall name him Laurent.”
    This was the hardest farewell, for both men knew they were unlikely to ever meet again. The priest was old and frail and Grey’s own return to England was far from safe. Though the war must end someday, it was impossible to predict when Englishmen could openly visit France again.
    His voice thick with emotion, Père Laurent said, “Make it Lawrence, for he will be an English gentleman, like you.” Ending the embrace, he said, “Go with God, my son. You are in good hands with the lady fox.”
    “I know.” Grey swung rather warily onto his mount, a placid old gelding called Achille. The horse didn’t live up to its warrior name, so it was a good choice for him now. Cassie was unsurprised to see that even after ten years away from horses, he settled into the saddle like a skilled rider.
    Viole Boyer approached him. “Godspeed, Monsieur Sommers. I have your English addresses as you have ours here. When this damnable war is over, perhaps you can call again, or at least let us know how you do.”
    “I shall.” When she offered her hand, he bent from the saddle and kissed it. “You have my eternal gratitude, madame.”
    “Then the scales are balanced,” she said, blushing like a young girl. The fabled Wyndham charm was recovering fast, Cassie thought with amusement.
    As awkward, yearning silence fell, Cassie said briskly, “Time to get moving. We have a steep ride ahead of us.”
    She gave a last wave and set off on a narrow path that led into the woods behind the farm, Grey following. When they reached the woodsmen’s track Romain Boyer had showed her the day before, it was wide enough for them to ride side by side through the bare trees. Patches of snow lay on the ground, but there was a hint of spring in the air.
    “How long will it take us to cross over the hills?” Grey asked.
    “Romain told me of a hut near the summit where we can spend the night,” Cassie replied. “We should reach our road on the other side of the hills by afternoon tomorrow, barring bad